


Piranha

by eff_the_ineffable



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Murder, Parent Death, Project Blackwing (Dirk Gently)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 13:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10945068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eff_the_ineffable/pseuds/eff_the_ineffable
Summary: "The world will take me where I need to go. I'm like a leaf in the stream of creation until I find Dirk Gently, whoever or whatever that is, and then I'm a piranha. In the stream of creation."A collection of vignettes from the childhood of Bartine Curlish, pre- and post- Blackwing.





	Piranha

**Author's Note:**

> This was created for the DGHDA Beginner Big Bang, so make sure you check out all of the other amazing fics in the collection! I collaborated with [Sierra](https://holisticmurdermuppet.tumblr.com/) who has created [this awesome drawing](https://holisticmurdermuppet.tumblr.com/post/160872854279) to go with the fic! I also want to give a massive shoutout to my fantastic beta [Gabe](http://swansongcas.tumblr.com/) for all their support and to the lovely [Hannah](http://princessparadoxical.tumblr.com/) for her input (and for introducing me to the show!)
> 
> Trigger warnings: Murder/death, violence, blood, child abuse (implied and attempted), non-violent parental death (cancer)
> 
> A couple of quick AU notes: I really like [Inkyfishes'](http://archiveofourown.org/users/inkyfishes) theory about [Bart and Dirk being twins](https://inkyfishes.tumblr.com/post/157566844310/bart-and-dirk-are-twins-theory-post) \- in this work I've made them half-siblings who share a father, however it doesn't feature heavily in the story. I'm also headcanoning that all the Blackwing subjects are tattooed with their project symbol.

* * *

 

 Doctor Green walked out of the dilapidated little house, suppressing a shudder as the door screeched shut behind him. Although the front yard was depressingly bare of vegetation it still took him several seconds to locate the child he was looking for. He strode over to the fence where she sat busily deconstructing a plastic toy in the dirtiest part of the yard.

_Typical._

“Bartine.”

The girl didn’t look up, totally absorbed in her efforts to pull apart a…. plastic fish? It didn’t matter. Green cleared his throat and tried again.

“Bartine, I need you to listen to me.”

“What?” she snapped, frustrated.

Feeling a sudden flash of trepidation, the doctor squatted down so that they were face-to-face. Piercing grey-blue eyes glared out at him from a horrendously grubby face.

“Your mother is very sick, Bartine.”

She didn’t say anything. Mummy was always sick; she had been sick for as long as Bart could remember and she was four now, so that was a very long time. Why couldn’t the stupid man leave her alone and let her play?

Green rubbed the bridge of his nose; he hated this part of the job. It never got easier.

“Your mother is dying. Do you know what that means?”

Bart shook her head.

“Dying is… when someone dies it’s like they go to sleep but they don’t wake up again. It means their soul isn’t in their body anymore. You can’t talk to them or- or play with them. They’ve gone away and they won’t come back.”

“Gone?” She was standing now, trembling as she stared him down.

“Yes.”

“Mummy?”

“Yes. Soon. Not ye- NO! BARTINE!”

Before he could stop her the child bolted straight towards the road. There was a squeal of brakes as a black car swerved violently across the lanes, skidding out of control. A sickening crunch rang out as its front end crumpled into a thick tree. Two police cars pulled up abruptly. Sirens shrieked and lights flashed in warning as Green ran wildly towards the wreck. As the dark smoke began to dissipate he yelled her name again and, sitting unscathed next to the tracks of hot rubber, little Bartine Curlish began to sob.

 

* * *

 

Maria Curlish lay limply on the hospital bed. Breathing was so hard these days; everything was so hard. What was going to happen to Bartine when she died? They had no family here. There was no one to take care of her. That stupid, stupid Andrei Cjelli had vanished the year Bartine turned two. It had hurt too much to stay in Poland while the pain was so fresh. She’d then moved to America, changed their names, and tried to start a new life.

Then the cancer set in.

There was never enough money. Treatment was far too expensive to even consider. Better to feed her daughter, try to survive, try to plead with the Universe. Send countless letters and emails into the ether in the hope that somehow the father of her baby would come and take responsibility when she was gone.

It was all useless.

She was drifting in and out of consciousness. Each day of the past two years felt like it had been stretched and twisted into an eternity, yet somehow it had still ended up being too short a time. She was dying, and Andrei was unreachable. The only thing she could do now was to trust Doctor Green to make arrangements for Bartine. She had tried so hard…

Her cycling thoughts were jolted back into reality as the ward door creaked open and a small, familiar figure stumbled in.

“Mummy?”

Maria no longer had the strength to lift her head up from the pillow but she forced out a hoarse whisper.

“Bart? What are you doing here?”

The little girl wrestled a nearby chair over to the side of the bed and scrambled up.

“I hear the doctor man tellin’ one of the blue ladies where you were so I came to find you.”

“Nurses. They’re called nurses.” She corrected automatically.

“ _Mummy_.” Bart was sitting on the bed now, leaning over her earnestly. “I made that man die.”

The driver of the black sports car – the bank robber. When Green had told her about it she hadn’t been able to stop shaking. But Bart was sitting here now, alive and with a face crumpling in fear.

“I made him die- and- and doctor said you’re going to die- but I don’t want you too! _I’m not making you die!_ ”

Somehow Maria managed to will her unresponsive muscles into lifting her hand. She wiped the tear tracks on Bart’s cheek gently.

“No, my darling. You’re not making me die. Do you understand? _This is not your fault_.”

The breath caught in her throat as she tried desperately to make her vocal cords work. It was so hard these days.

“Bartine, li- listen to me. You were far too little to remember then, but when we lived in Poland,” ( _before Andrei disappeared_ said the maddening voice in her head) “- we used to have a festival. Every year at the end of winter we drowned the Marzanna doll.”

“Why?” Bart demanded.

“Winter has to die so that spring can come again. Leaves have to die in the fall so that the trees can have enough energy to grow new leaves again in spring. It’s all a cycle, Bart. Everything is connected. It’s how the Universe works.”

Her hand dropped back to the sheets, the last of her strength used up. Her voice was barely audible now.

“It doesn’t feel fair, Bart. I don’t want to leave you. But- but when something dies the Universe makes something else grow…”

 

* * *

 

Bart sat on a narrow white bed at the very end of a cold room filled with identical narrow white beds. She had just finished transferring the contents of her tiny case of possessions into the metal trunk at the foot of the cot. Most of the space was taken up by the spare regulation scratchy grey pinafore, regulation scratchy grey stockings, and regulation scratchy white blouses. In the very corner of the trunk she placed the little plastic fish that had somehow managed to escape being stolen or broken at the past four orphanages.

Bart swung her feet in the new regulation heavy black shoes, taking pleasure in the solid thunking sound they made against the bedframe. She wondered how soon it would be before she would be moved on to the next institution. It never took long. Accidents seemed to follow her. The familiar little tug in her gut would always end up prompting her to leave a pencil on the floor, or spill water on the tiles, or catch someone’s attention at the precise moment needed to swing the balance of their fate. The authorities rarely caught on to her the first time someone’s head cracked open or lightning struck or a car accident happened, but children were another matter entirely.

It always started quietly – quickly averted gazes from the shy ones, pointed stares from the ringleaders. Soon the whispers would start.

 _Did you hear what happened? She doesn’t say anything but we know she was there. She_ killed _him. It’s her fault._

Then the chanting would begin.

_Witch-girl, witch-girl. She’ll point at you and your brains will explode. Don’t let the witch-girl catch you alone…_

As the matron would politely escort her to the gate of the orphanage, carefully explaining that, well, we just don’t believe you’re a good _fit_ for this place, she could hear the high voices echoing.

_Monster. Freak. Murderer…_

Bart stood firmly, shaking the memories from her head. The Sister would be back in a minute to take her to meet the matron of the institution. Maybe things would be different this time. Maybe the Universe wouldn’t have anyone here for her to kill…

She didn’t think it was likely.

 

* * *

 

Bart stood outside the Director’s office, shrinking against the dark wooden paneling of the hallway. She was scared. She hadn’t been frightened earlier that day, when she had felt the little pull in her stomach and then bent down to tie her shoelace just in time for Mrs. Knightsbridge to trip over her. She was quietly calm while the cruel woman had fallen down the long flight of steps and crumpled unmoving at the bottom, blood starting to seep out from her skull onto the carpet. It was just another morning then, but now she had been summoned by the Director. Now she was afraid. From the moment she had seen the officious-looking man in the distance she had known that she would have to kill him. After the first few weeks in this orphanage the whispered stories and carefully blank faces from the older girls only served to confirm her instinct. For the first time though, the Universe had said **_wait_**. Now, as the ridges on the wall dug uncomfortably into her back through the thin material of her uniform, she wondered if it might finally be time for action.

At last she heard the Director’s sickly smooth voice.

“Come inside, Miss Curlish.”

As the heavy door clicked shut she took the opportunity to observe the man closely for the first time. He was reasonably tall and solidly built. His dark hair was thinning at the temples and as her gaze landed on his face, the too-big smile — the one that tells adults, “of course I am respected and liked by these poor dear children, your money is supporting a worthy cause,” and that tells children “here is a crocodile waiting for you to slip,” — _that_ smile dropped from his face and was replaced by a sharp expression.

“I am sure you know why you are here, Miss Curlish. I cannot express the seriousness of this situation enough. Your imbecilic, thoughtless conduct has resulted in the death of one of my most valued staff members.”

His voice was beginning to rise. Bart stayed still in front of the wide desk, waiting for a signal. It was clear that her usual methods wouldn’t work here. She frantically scanned the objects in front of her, searching for a weapon.

The Director’s breath was coming quickly now and his nostrils flared as he spoke. “But was it thoughtless? I’m not so sure, girlie. I never trusted you from the start. You’re a sly girl. A _murderer_. You’re a little bitch, girlie and you’re going to get punished for it. Come here-“

**_Now._ **

As he rose Bart snatched up the decorative letter-opener lying in front of her and whirled into action, colliding with him halfway around the desk. He tried to grasp at her but she dodged, stabbing at his torso with as much strength as she could muster.

 ** _Again_** , ordered the Universe, **_and again_**.

He was choking now, clutching at his stomach as he doubled over, one arm flailing, books crashing to the floor.

 **_Now the throat_ ** _._

Somehow the blows missed Bart as she grasped the slippery, bloodied little knife and thrust it deep into his windpipe. As his gurgles fell into silence she recoiled from the punctured body. She had seen death many times over the past eight years; watched the flicker in a person’s eyes as their soul retreated or the life-force pooled hot and crimson beneath their broken body. This time it was different. This time the blood dripped off her fingers too, fingers that had gripped and stabbed with a muscle memory that seemed to flow from the infinity that coursed through her tiny body.  The stream of creation…

Bart shivered and fled to the shelter of the armchair on the other side of the room. He was dead. She wondered dully if the police would finally take her away; there was no denying her guilt this time. _Caught red-handed_. A snippet from a long forgotten storybook echoed through her mind. Was she going to go to prison? She had only done what the Universe told her to. As she huddled frozen in the chair a little drop of blood ran down her finger and hung suspended for a breath, catching the light before falling with a tiny splash onto the coffee table. 

The movement seemed to stir her brain back into action. She looked down at the now-stained book lying open in front of her, fighting to regain focus before her thoughts rose up in panic again. It appeared to be an old-fashioned encyclopedia; there was a picture of a very strange-looking fish gazing out at her from the top left corner. It was boldly captioned “AMAZONIAN PIRANHA”. She pored over the entry, drinking in the stories of the feared predator. A voice whispered from her memories. 

 _When something dies the Universe makes something else grow_.

She felt the tiniest of shifts within her as the scale of the world moved slightly closer to balance.

**_Things are about to change…_ **

 

**__ **

 

* * *

 

Colonel Scott Riggins sat and pondered the young girl on the other side of the one-way glass. It had been sheer chance that he was in the vicinity when the local police had gotten the call from Reddingfield Children’s Home yesterday afternoon. Before the CIA scouts in Europe had located the boy psychic Svlad Cjelli three weeks ago even his faith in the paranormal project had started to waver, but now two children in one month? Things were going his way at last. Luck was on his side- or something stronger than luck.

A fidgeting movement from the girl on the bench in front of him brought his attention back to the moment. It was hard to reconcile this somewhat underfed child with the accounts he’d heard. Bartine Curlish, thirty reported instances of being present in cases of unexplained deaths, resident of fifteen different orphanages. Murderer of the respected director Mr. James Samson, who was now looking less and less reputable as investigations continued. Yes, the skinny child with piercing pale eyes and hair pulled back in two painfully tight braids was certainly an enigma.

An enigma with _power_. It was time to harness that power. He entered the room.

“Hello Bartine.”

Bart looked up at him warily. “Am I in prison now?”

Riggins lowered himself slowly to meet her eye level. “No Bartine. I’m here to offer you an… alternative.”

Bart’s face stayed blank but her eyes flickered. He decided to continue.

“You have a very special gift. I know it might seem scary at the moment but I want to help you to learn how to use it. You have enormous potential… _enormous_ potential, Bartine. The Seattle police have agreed to let you join my Blackwing program for people who are special like you. By studying your abilities we can find out amazing things about the workings of the Universe.”

At the mention of the word Bart’s expression suddenly opened up. “It was the Universe. The Universe told me...” she clamped her mouth shut and turned away.

Riggins adjusted his position so that they were facing each other again. “I know. I know the police didn’t believe you when you told them that, but at Blackwing we _understand_. I can help you. Do you trust me?”

Bart stood up abruptly. The colonel found himself forcing away a shudder as her penetrating gaze swept over him and back up to his eyes. She held the stare for a moment more before moving towards the door.

“Let’s go then.”

 

* * *

 

**Epilogue**

Project Marzanna sat in her cell, studiously ignoring the factsheet in front of her and trying to block out the faint buzzing sound filtering through the floor. She’d given up trying to explain to the trainers how useless the endless poring over weapons specifications and gun models was. If the Universe wanted her to kill someone it would provide the means and that was that. Unfortunately, Sergeant Crews seemed to think that it was essential for her to be able to parrot back to him the details of latest developments in weapons technology at their thrice-weekly sessions. She preferred the daily martial arts lessons to the pointless shooting practices; in her experience guns always found the target they were meant to hit but learning how to maneuver bodies was proving particularly helpful on missions given her small frame. She laid her head on the table and groaned. Lunch hour was almost over. The guards would be here soon to take her to Crews and it would be time for another frustrating round of reciting specifications and getting yelled at for sloppy technique, and on top of all this the buzzing was _still_ going. It seemed even louder now. Was it on the level below?

Suddenly the sound of yelling rang out distinctly and an alarm began to shriek. Marzanna sat bolt upright. This was unusual. She’d gathered from snippets of conversation over the years that all the Projects on the floor beneath hers were nocturnal. The din was growing. There were footsteps thudding down her corridor now and whoops echoing raucously off the bare walls. They were very close now. She ran to the door, straining to see who the voices clamoring outside her cell belonged to.

“Is this it? The smell’s gettin’ stronger.”

“What are we waiting for? Smash it!”

“Break it down!”

A snarling tattooed face pressed abruptly against the high barred window before being pushed aside by a slightly calmer one wearing glasses. Rising onto tiptoes Marzanna glared through the young man’s lenses, noses almost touching as they faced off through the bars.

“What d’you think you’re doing?”

He leered. “We’re _hungry_.”

“Yeah well it’s tasteless but you can have the rest of my soup if you’re that desperate.”

He pulled back from window with a barking laugh.

“Gripps is right, boys. Smells strong but it’s not quite what we’re looking for. There’s no _fear_ here.”

“Fear’s stupid. I could kill all of youse with my eyes shut.”

He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Oh, so _you’re_ the murder prodigy they go on about.”

She looked out at the four men, each one holding some kind of improvised club. All displayed the same uniform as her but were covered in marks and rips, along with a few creative additions.

 “Who are you clowns anyway?”

The smallest one grinned manically at her.

“We’re the Rowdy Three!”

“Yeah! That’s us!”

“And Rowdy boys don’t belong in no cages!”

“Hell no!”

“Let’s get going, Martin! Come on!”

The leader- Martin- pulled a long metal object out of the makeshift belt around his hips and slipped it through the bars.

“You don’t seem the type for cages either, Murder Girl. The guards will be up here soon.” He turned back to his companions and howled, throwing his head back. “Right boys, let’s go!”

Hollering enthusiastically the men swung their clubs against the door several times before thundering on down the corridor. A smile broke across her face as she gazed at the new weapon in her hands and felt the familiar shift of balance inside her.

**_It’s time._ **

 

* * *

 

Brendan Soo leaned back in his chair and stretched. It was almost closing time- better get cracking on clean up. Just as he started wiping down the bench he heard the jangle of the parlour door opening. He sighed and stuck his head through the doorway to the front.

“We’re close- _shit_.”

Standing silhouetted against the shop door was a young woman. The setting sun gilded the halo of matted hair surrounding her head and glistened around the edges of the long machete she held.

_Shit._

As she moved forward he registered the dried blood covering her white overalls but he was frozen to the spot. She slowly pointed the blade towards him.

“You do tattoos.” It wasn’t a question. He nodded, gulping.

“Do this on me.”

She thrust her left hand towards him, holding an extremely crumpled and stained piece of paper. He took it automatically. It was a page ripped from what seemed to be an encyclopedia, and in the top left corner there was an engraving of a piranha.

“Ok…”

“Hurry up chump, I haven’t got all day.”

He led her into the back room, one part of his brain on autopilot even as the other whirred frantically, searching for some semblance of rationality to hold onto.

“Where would you like your tattoo?”

She yanked up her left sleeve and gestured at the strange circular mark hovering over three lines on her upper arm.

“Cover it up. Marzanna’s dead.”


End file.
